It Will Happen Again, and Again
by KnotMaster
Summary: Tonight's the night, and Dexter is ready to kill again. He has his victim, his playtime toys, a Kill Room ready... Everything is perfect. And so, once again, the knife descends. A short story of a kill that would have taken place anywhere around season 2-4. Any comments welcome. Style based off that of Jeff Lindsay, content a mix between the book and show.


**Yeah... So I felt like writing a Dexter FanFiction, because for some reason I had yet to do so. I tried to make it descriptive. I also tried to kind of have a style similar to Jeff Lindsay, so I hope I succeeded in that. I would give you the warning of, "It is graphic," but if you are reading this chances are you have either read the books or seen the show, and considering that I'm pretty sure this isn't any worse than what you've already seen and or heard.**

It Will Happen Again, and Again

Tonight the Need pulls at me hard, just as it has so many other times. It has been far too long since the last time I let the monster out to play, and I can't say I like it all that much. But in the end the wait, the time spent ensuring his guilt, will be worth it. The release of pressure will feel so good after letting it build up for so long.

I look down at my unconscious prey, eager to get him into the Kill Room I had so carefully prepared for him. James Moore, age 23, a charming and monstrous man with a taste for killing fifteen-year-olds. He had managed to go undetected by the police, but I caught him all too easily. And so as I'm lifting him out of my rather roomy trunk to carry him into the secluded cabin surrounded by trees, where he had killed all of his victims, I can't help but feel a little surge of pleasure. I look up at the big, wonderful moon as the noise of the night fills my ears. This is going to be a good kill.

He had gone down quite easily, as smoothly as I could have hoped. The man was going to his living room in hopes of sitting on his plush leather couch to watch TV after a long day at work, but his plans were quickly changed when he walked by and I slipped my needle into his neck, releasing the sweet tranquilizer into his bloodstream. He let out a small gratifying gasp and his blue eyes went wide with shock for a few seconds before he went limp, unconscious, and dropped to the floor.

It was easy to carry him out because he wasn't very big and there was no one outside, no houses with lights on, and after a couple minutes I was in my car with him in the back, headed over to his death. And as I lay him down on the table I had set in the middle of the room, I imagine what will happen shortly—his look of surprise when he awakens to find himself in a room covered in plastic, wrapped in plastic and secured to a table. That won't even be the best part. Not even close.

Enthusiastically I begin wrapping him, wrapping the shiny, clean plastic around his upper arms, effectively binding them to his sides, proceeding to do the same to his wrists and hands. It's all part of the routine, the routine that was so perfectly fabricated to ensure I was never caught, to keep the real me hidden from everyone except those who became nothing but a memory and a small drop of blood on a glass slide.

Once I finish wrapping him the way I always do my victims, I use my wonderful gray duct tape to firmly secure the fowl monster to the wooden table, ensuring he won't be going anywhere any time soon. After taping his head in place, I spend a minute looking down at my handiwork, admiring the thoroughness of it all, anticipating what is soon to come.

This has happened so many times, and it will continue to happen time after time. Even if I wasn't compelled to do these awful things, I am pretty sure I would still do them anyway because in all honesty it brings me great pleasure, something that nothing else does. So even if I didn't feel the urge, the pulling Need, I would probably still be right here, about to cut a human being into several neat little pieces.

Returning to the ritual I pick up the pictures I printed out for this occasion. They were some of the pictures I had taken at the crime scenes, his crime scenes, so he will know exactly what he did. They were quite messy, but I would hang them up anyway since he has to see them, has to. Walking over to the wall nearest to his table, I tape the pictures up onto the plastic covering that wall, feeling the release inching even closer.

Walking back over to the table, I look at the pictures. Harry had always been adamant that it be someone who deserves it, someone who had done heinous crimes, not innocents, and I have followed that rule very closely in all the time that I've been pursuing this hobby. They've always gotten what they deserved, most certainly. Although sometimes they never do admit they did it, continue to refuse, hiding behind lies, pleading to me that I've got the wrong person and that it was a mistake. But it never was. I knew. However, others admit it, some seeming guilty while others remain confident in their acts.

Feeling the icy cold Need prickle down my spine, begging me to do the hideous deed it so badly wants me to do, I don my regular kill attire—clean white latex gloves and all—wanting the kill just as badly as my fellow Passenger. It would be imprudent of me not to have this be part of the ritual. It helps any evidence from being left behind, and this is vital to my freedom in addition to it just being once less thing to worry about. Diabolical Dexter is much happier when he can slice up his victims without the thought of the SWAT team interrupting.

Now that I'm dressed and my victim is prepped, I walk over to a small table next to the one James is lying on and open up my roll of knives, welcoming the sanitary, shiny sight of their beautiful, freshly sharpened blades. Just to admire it, I pull out my favorite one. I soak in the way the light gleams off the edge. It's been far too long since I've felt the smooth carving of flesh, followed by the sight of the deep crimson blood flowing out onto the once clean plastic, glistening, the humming of my bone saw and the victim's muffled screams acting as background music.

I slip the knife back in place and grab some smelling salts, more than ready to start my work on the fowl thing. My inner beast, my Passenger, wants it, and so do I. Walking over to the right side of the table, I look down at my now docile victim. After waving the salts over his nose, his eyelids flutter and he starts looking around, his breathing becoming heavy. Shock and confusion are clear on his face.

"Where am I?" he asks. They always ask me that.

"That doesn't matter," I say calmly but confidently. "Do you recognize them?" I ask, pointing to the pictures.

"No… Who are they? Why are you showing me these horrible pictures of them? Is this what you're going to do to me?" he asks feigning fear at the end. Pretty good lies, I must admit.

"Don't act stupid. I know you know who they are," I say, trying to see if he'll change his mind. Walking over to the little table I grab my scalpel, hearing James wriggle lightly against the duct tape.

"I have no fucking clue what you're talking about," he says desperately, wincing and letting out a small rasping sound as I cut into his cheek with my knife.

I look down at the deep red blood as it spills down the side of his terrified face. The feeling of slicing flesh sends shivers down my spine. I close my eyes and sigh, feeling icy cold relief just at my fingertips.

"What the fuck are you doing, you creep?" he asks.

"You should know, you've done it enough times," I say, putting a drop of his blood on a slide. When I put the other slide on top of the first, I watch the blood spread out. I set it down next to his head on the table. He tries to turn his head far enough to see it but fails.

Struggling against the tape and plastic a bit he says, "I have no clue what you're talking about, psycho… Just let me go. I'll give you anything." Still denying. My blade can be very convincing, though.

"Yes, you will," I say, grabbing my favorite knife. Stepping to the bottom of him I cut off his pinky toe. As I do it he screams and thrashes, the pain unbearable. It all drenches my senses with pleasure, and I close my eyes again, almost shaking from the shivers.

"Oh Jesus… Oh God… That fucking hurts!" he whines pathetically as he continues to try to get free.

"Do you know what I'm talking about now? Or should I remove your big toe to help refresh your memory?" I ask.

"No! Okay, I know what you're talking about! Just don't hurt me anymore…" After a slight pause he asks, "Why are you doing this?" with pain heavy in his voice.

"I'm pretty sure you know why."

"I really don't." Then an expression comes across his face that shows he knows exactly why I'm doing this. Well, at least part of it. "Is that why? Oh God… I couldn't help it! I couldn't stop myself… Come on, you have to understand!"

"I understand. But I would never do what you did. Not innocents. That would be wrong," I say.

"You think killing a bad person is any better than taking the life of an innocent person?" he asks, sounding rather judgmental, although I get his point.

"No, not completely anyway. But killing an innocent person is just indecent, unjustified."

"Killing me won't be any more justified than what I did!" he yells. I can tell he is trying to convince me not to go through with it, but it won't work. It never has.

"Oh, but it will be," I say, not really caring whether it actually was or not. It followed The Code, Harry's code, and Harry was always right. Not caring either way, I feel the Need nudging me, and he is really getting quite loud so I go over to my little table of supplies and pick up my roll of duct tape. James tries to look up to see what I am doing, but the strip of tape keeps his head down effectively.

"What are you doing, man?" he asks sounding worried. He is shaking. I look back at him as I start pulling on the tape, and the second he hears the ratcheting sound he realizes and I can honestly say his face went a little pale. "Come on, you don't have to do this," he says as he struggles against the plastic and tape in a last effort to escape. But he won't be going anywhere.

Holding the piece of tape I walk back over to the pathetic monster. He looks at me with fearful eyes and I can't help but smile at him. I can tell he's shaking still. This is excellent, and the kill will be so much better.

"No, just let me go, man. Oh God… Just let me go," he says.

"Nah. But you know what I am going to do?" I ask with a smile still on my face.

"… What?" he asks nervously, sounding unsure of whether he really wants to know or not, fearing what I might say.

"I'm going to kill you," I say as I place the piece of tape over his mouth, reducing his feeble pleas to unintelligible whimpers.

I look down at him and sigh and smile. I'm ready for the release, and finally it will come. Grabbing my knife I begin my work on James.

Cutting into his soft flesh, the blood flows heavily, a dark sea of red forming around him on the plastic. Ecstasy builds within me and a series of shivers go down my spine. My cuts are smooth, precise, my hand guiding the knife perfectly as the blades slices. This is beyond excellent.

As I continue my work, the blood comes, and the monster responds with great distress, thrashing and screaming no matter how ineffective it all is. I take a moment to let it all sink in—the feel of the blade gliding on skin, the crimson blood soaking everywhere, the man's muffled screams. These are all such wonderful sensations. It almost feels as if my senses are being overwhelmed.

But the pleasure is too great for me to stop for long, so I go on, spending some quality time on his fingers. It feels as if my chest is tingling and it is wonderful.

After a while he begins to quiet down quite a bit and his struggles become weak. Placing a gloved, bloody hand up to his neck I try to feel his pulse. It's extremely slow. I look into his eyes, and he gives me a brief look of panic. He goes quiet and limp as his pulse begins to fade out. As this happens, all the tension flows out of my body, leaving behind nothing but icy cold calm.

I take in a deep breath as I carefully shut his eyelids. My Passenger is satisfied, and so am I. I will finish cutting him into little pieces to satisfy The Code, as well. It will be finished soon. Then in a week or so, it will happen again. And again.

**Well, there it is. I really do hope I did a decent job with it. As I was reading over it one last time in search of errors, the thought occurred to me that some people will like the plot, and some won't. If I do not bore you and you read the whole thing, I would appreciate it if you told me which side you are on. It wasn't much, but I figured someone is going to want to read it. I know I've searched for stories like this before on this site, so I figure other people must too. If you liked it, tell me, including what your favorite part about it was. If you found it horrid and disgusting, go ahead and tell me that too. I'm pretty much just looking for your opinion.**


End file.
